


Trick of the Eye

by fewlmewn (Shouriko)



Series: D&D Original Stories [1]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Con Artists, Eloping, Established Relationship, F/F, Gen, Homebrew Content, Magic-Users, Missing Persons, Mystery, Slavery, Wizards, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 13:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14895378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shouriko/pseuds/fewlmewn
Summary: At the very back of The Roundelay, in a shadowed corner of one of the most famous venues in The Web, Forsoth's own entertainment district, one can find an eye-catching sight. A beautiful woman, donning exotic clothes, sits at a table talking to a white rabbit and drinking from a tall glass. A long, midnight blue cape and a squat top-hat of the same made and fabric frame her figure. She's a magician, a master of the elements she masterfully bends to serve her tricks and illusions, to stun and amaze her audience. She performs here, when the place is packed enough to be worth her while. Otherwise, she can lend her skills - for a price."What's with the bunny, you ask? But why, she's my assistant!"But her story doesn't begin in Forsoth. It starts many years before, in a slow-moving, hard-working mining town of Northern Emera, during one stuffy afternoon that will change everything.





	1. The Birth of Benne the Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm back again with some original content I've written as I plan my homebrewed world. I'm making maps and stuff, so it's only fair I gave some characters the same privilege of putting their story out into the ether.  
> If you haven't read the summary already, I suggest you do - there is something interesting in there...

The hot, humid air inside the tavern felt heavy on Benne’s brow, beads of sweat dotting the wisps of hazelnut hair crowning her forehead. The miners’ boots tapped rhythmically all around her, sand and gravel gathering at the feet of rows and rows of wooden benches. The occasional rat ran past them to sift through the dirt in search for the stray bread crumble or piece of goat cheese. A few feet in front of the young girl, raised above the gathered crowd of curious patrons and the enraptured maids and barkeep, on a stage of packed sandstone tiles and bricks, stood the latest wonder to grace inns, theaters and watering holes this side of the Desert. The first oasis past the Scorching Wastes’ dunes and ruins lost to the sandstorms, close enough to the local copper mine to be a prominent stop for workers and guards alike, The Parched Pilgrim was of a modest size and build, with walls thick enough to withstand most of the elements – the heat of day and the frigid breeze of the night – and enough rooms to accommodate all of those who had dared to brave the Wastes. Some merchants from up North made their way close enough to the edges of the desert as well, but not nearly enough to be counted among the current patrons of the Pilgrim. Well-worn tunics in a range of off-white colors covered the robust backs of the miners to the sides and behind Benne, the little girl relegated to sitting on the tavern’s floor, and she could swear that if someone just asked, she would’ve been able to tell which shaft and which part of the mine each of the men and women worked in based only on the color of the dust permanently woven into the fabric of their clothes. Heavy boots kept stomping all around her, in a cacophony of rumbles that threatened to shake the very walls of the Pilgrim. Pebbles started falling from the ceiling, a stray clay cup on the floor gently bounced with each “thump”, and whenever a patron spiraled down the stone steps to the second floor, roused from their rest by the incredible noise, they too seemed to be drawn into the music-less dance. Benne kept her feet tightly crossed under her weight, but could feel the urge to stomp all the same. However, the sight before her was far more compelling and her big black eyes couldn’t tear away from the young woman in front of her, on the stage, in all of her hypnotic glory.

She must’ve been a scant few years older than Benne herself, but past puberty every girl looked more of a woman than Benne ever believed she could herself become. Two long, pitch black braids framed her youthful face, the hair so dark the single locks couldn’t have been told apart if it wasn’t for the colorful ribbons that ran across the braids’ lengths. Red, green, blue, golden, bright pink and white, some in broad strips, other just simple laces or woolen threads interwoven through her hair. She had a darker complexion than Benne by far, but her skin was clean, without a trace of dirt or sweat. The clean clothes had been the first to catch the girl’s eye, when the woman had initially entered the tavern. Sun-bright and immaculate white sleeves, a colorful open waistcoat with golden bells and cymbals, embroidered with flowers and geometric shapes, a sweeping red linen skirt, far too long for the desert and not in the style of travellers from the North either, with black lace lining the hem. She had leaned on the counter, exchanged a few words with Shalizah, and was immediately beckoned to the narrow stage, meant for the odd band of travelling minstrels, as if the old owner of the inn had recognized the woman, as if she’d been an old friend, back from her travels to put on a show in the familiar atmosphere inside the Pilgrim. Her fame seemed to precede her, and she soon began performing.

With piercing, emerald green eyes, she looked over the patrons, one by one, catching their attention and luring them to her. A pale, frayed and worn hempen rope climbed out from her side-pouch and swirled of its own volition around her arm, dipping across her hair and disappearing behind her neck only to appear as a long, smooth white snake, glimmering in the low lantern light as if covered in diamond dust. The animal moved unhindered, gracefully sliding across her body. The more wary and age-worn miners gasped, and instinctually pressed their backs against the tables behind them in a poor attempt to put more distance between themselves and the lethal predator they had encountered more than once near the mines, and that was happily dipping between the woman’s collarbones like a jeweled necklace. Benne was a merchant’s daughter and hadn’t seen enough of the world by then to know the apparent dangers the performance was presenting. She was simply amazed at the trick, and wanted to know how one could possibly transform a rope into a snake, or the other way around. Did the woman travel from town to town with a snake in tow, trapped in the shape of a hempen rope in her side-pouch? Was it a mere illusion, the likes of which she had heard about from those that had passed by treacherous oases in the Wastes? She simply had to know, but right now all that mattered were the young woman’s tricks.

She summoned a cloud of fireflies that swirled across the room and dived into the dying embers of a brazier in the corner, but not before writing the word “Batha” in midair above her with their bright, unnaturally lit, shimmering yellow-green bodies. Like some sickening rocks that had been retrieved in mines deeper into the desert, and that Benne had heard of from a prospector that had gone blind after gazing upon them – or like the piercing eyes of the blacksmiths and champions of Ad Daman, shining with unnatural light from the inside. The magician introduced herself to her captivated audience as the Magnificent Batha and began narrating a tale to the patrons, who had by then gotten used to the slithering “friend” that kept dancing up and down her arms, the snake not in the least bit inclined to return to its lifeless slumber just yet, and everyone was now paying attention to her words with a singular purpose. Benne remembers hearing an instruction, a command hazy and warbled, as if Batha’s speech was coming through a lattice screen or from underwater.

“ _Stomp your feet and pay the fee. Forget of this._ ”

Her mind danced, thoughts and will swirling behind her lids, her feet shuffled under her body, wanting to comply. But in the blink of an eye, the magician’s voice was clear again and, once she had shaken its effects off, Benne could see the enchantment for what it was. The woman was still talking, explaining how the members of the audience had been hypnotized to mimic the soldiers of old marching across the desert to one of the countless forgotten ruins of ancient kings and queens.

“ _In the round, sunken throne room, the battle-worn soldiers had each found a piece of treasure. Rings, gold ore, coin, gems and great wonders came into their possession as payment for loyally and fiercely serving their ruler, but they had to pay their fealty…_ ”

Then, everyone rose, started rummaging through pockets and pouches, tearing thin golden chains from their necks, sliding rings off their fingers. Batha opened a velvet bag the color of her eyes, no larger than a small sack, and presented it to the patrons as she crouched at the edge of the stage, waiting. Lined one behind the other, they each deposited their fee and returned to their seats. From her position, Benne could barely see between the legs of some twenty men and women, but enough to witness golden and silver coins, wedding bands, amulets, family heirlooms and more, all fall into a black, dark hole, and disappear into the green bag. She continued her speech, the crowds enraptured and straight-backed like the soldiers they believed they were.

“ _But then, their ruler betrayed the Gods, their ancient kingdom earned the scorn of a powerful, all-knowing entity, and as such was cast away from the land, never to be remembered. Temples and fortresses fell along with that betrayal, the thriving land shriveled to a waste of dust and sand, and no one was left alive who knew where the kingdom’s riches had been hidden. Those soldiers that had managed to survive should count themselves lucky, and each returned to their homes to tell their children, and their children’s children of their adventure. You, just like them, are soon to be spreading the word of the Magnificent Batha the Magician, who entertained you for but a simple afternoon in this mining town at the edges of the Scorching Wastes._ ”

She snapped her fingers and clicked the heels of her shoes, and everyone melted in their seats, blinking in confusion for a second before gazing upon the magician again. Wide eyed and stunned at how the woman had managed to pull the trick off with such a sizeable audience, Benne looked around to see unsuspecting the patrons clapping and whistling, praising Batha for her skillful illusions and masterful storytelling, already whispering among themselves how wonderful she had been, and planning to tell of her performance to everyone they knew.

Batha bowed deeply, secreting and securing the velvet bag behind her back. As she rose, she locked eyes with Benne, wordlessly compelling her to follow the woman outside. And so she did, scurrying out and into a nearby sand-littered side alley. Burly barrels and clay pots almost as tall as her hid the girl from sight, but in a few seconds Batha drew near, joining her in the shadowed alcove.

“We shall not tell anyone about what we have seen, yes?” Benne frantically nodded, still as wide eyed as she’d been inside, despite the soft, sultry breeze pushing sand into her face. She could feel the texture of grains between her teeth, as her mouth helplessly worked to string words together. None came to the surface, the shock setting in that a magician this powerful could have had of her whatever she wanted. She could have disappeared, for all she knew.

“Fantastic! You are a clever one, aren’t you? Saw right through my story, you did. You shall be rewarded – for your wit and for your silence in days to come.” Her hand rose, locking Benne in place. She expected to be struck down on the spot, but instead she was presented with a nondescript handful of colored polished stones and two roughly cut gems. It took both hands to collect the small treasure, and Benne had no pockets on her simple dress to store such a bounty. Noticing as much, Batha produced a square of cloth and wrapped the gemstones in a nice little bundle for the girl to bring back home.

“I will be coming back again to perform for the rest of the town and I hope you do not mind.” Benne clutched the package in her hands tightly and shook her head, biting her lips resolutely. The woman was a thief, yes, but if a young girl such as herself hadn’t been fooled by her honeyed words, the townspeople had brought this on themselves. It wouldn’t have taken much to resist her charms, and yet, they were hanging from her lips like rats pinned in place by a scorpion’s stinger. She had seen the crowd cheerfully comply with Batha’s instructions, and how pleased they had been afterwards, after witnessing her display of magic. Not a stranger to the occasional pickpocketing herself, Benne concluded that it wasn’t all that bad if Batha resorted to make a living this way.

The two plotted, and planned to work together for the performances to come, until every miner, merchant and local populating the town and passing through for just one night had parted with some of their possessions – all for the privilege of meeting the famous Magnificent Batha.

The young woman, perhaps a few years past adult age but with eyes that betrayed a troubled past, told the girl stories about her line of work every night after the show, as she nursed a stiff drink and Benne sipped from her own cup of spiced goat’s milk. She was well-known South of the desert, her fame had spread far and wide along the coastal cities and along trade routes already; but this was her first stop North of the Wastes, and so it was vital that her tricks worked perfectly, to successfully charm the locals and influence them to spread word of her skill and prowess. “And beauty!” Batha giggled at that, instantly embarrassed at her own cheekiness, and her features scrunched and pulled, revealing an alluring white smile and unexpected, thin and almost impossible to see, crows’ feet wrinkling the corners of her eyes.

Then, as the frothy foam of her drink clinging to her peach fuzz threw Batha in a fit of laughter when she noticed the creamy, fluffy mustache it had drawn under the girl’s nose, Benne realized that the magician was not going to need tricks or spells to charm her. She had not seen much of the world, and the people of the town were boring, leading ordinary lives that had nothing to offer to a curious soul such as Benne’s. Every face looked the same, sometimes they even managed to surpass the previous in plainness. It was simply astonishing how dull life had been in the hard-working and sleepy desert town of Myath. Before Batha. Her eyes had been opened, how could she have been so blind?

As days passed, the two had grown fond of each other. Benne, impervious to Batha’s power of suggestion, kept on the lookout in the middle of the taproom to warn the magician if someone else besides herself had resisted the enchantment, so that the young woman could have avoided notice and either tried the spell again, or used other tricks of the mind on the inn’s patrons. The girls stayed up late each night after performing, swapping stories as they tallied the coin and treasure made during the afternoon’s display. To Benne’s relief, those unique possessions or trinkets that could recognizably be returned to someone who’d consider them of importance were set aside. Batha reassured her new friend that she always left them behind before leaving one town for the next. She couldn’t predict whether the objects would’ve returned to their respective owners, or seized by bandits or urchins or thieves before discovery, but at least the population wouldn’t have been hot on her trail, coming to the logic conclusion that if riches disappeared in bulk it might’ve only been her with her dirty tricks. As far as she was aware, in every town she had visited – and tricked – before, wedding rings, engraved lockets and family heirlooms had safely found their way back after her departure, and no bounty hunters had been sent for her so far.

It seemed like she had a good thing going, a method and a perfected technique. Benne didn’t want to overstay her welcome as her temporary assistant, but as their time together came to a close, with no new faces showing up to her performances anymore, the girl loathed the thought of never seeing the magician again and wished nothing more than to be swept away to follow Batha wherever the wind would’ve taken her. It had been an immense pleasure to get to know such a world-wise woman, listening to her tales of far-off lands and peoples. She had been amazed at her description of miles and miles of soldiers in glinting armor marching along the Empire’s shores, she gasped at the retelling of the hopeful and brave free folk that fought and lived in the tent cities at the edges of the Free Fields, she marveled at the colorful language Batha used to illustrate the islands off to the South of Emera, where pirates and beast folk were said to live dissolutely, leading sinful, exciting lives, pillaging and plundering! But Benne was just a peasant girl, and no matter how bright, she would’ve weighted Batha down in her travels in the long run.

Dreading the time of goodbyes, the end of their time together – barely a fortnight – approached bleakly. The last performance was still stunning, but Benne couldn’t bring herself to cheer any longer whenever Batha bowed in front of her audience. Sensing the girl’s apparent indifference, Batha confronted her, asking what was wrong. Tears almost filling her eyes to the brim, Benne confessed her feelings, and revealed to her friend how much she’d grown to like her, and how she never wanted to leave her side. There was admiration, yes, but also fondness, curiosity and the thrill of journeying together in Benne’s words. The two talked a long while during the magician’s last night in town, but in the end Batha, despite having understood and welcomed the girl’s feelings into her heart, could not tear the young Benne away from her home. Not now.

The next morning, Batha paid for her lodging and thanked Shalizah for hosting her and allowing the magician to perform at The Parched Pilgrim, all under the scornful gaze of a rejected Benne. Despite the caring, heartfelt words the black-haired woman had soothed her with the previous night, she couldn’t help but seethe, full of anger and disappointment. Underneath it all, she couldn’t but come to the conclusion that Batha had gained her trust – not with magic, but with plain old deceit, something the magician knew would’ve had better chances of succeeding with such a clever girl than crafted illusions – in order to secure an assistant, a temporary sidekick willing to do anything for her, included risking her own and her father’s life and reputation helping a criminal in exchange for a few coins, gems and the promise of a future thieving and deceiving together.

And yet, when Batha advised her to keep nourishing her intellect, to deepen her knowledge, to research and study and learn spells like the ones she’d seen her perform so many times, Benne took that advice and decided that it was still a worthy payment for what of herself she had given to the cunning trickster. With the bittersweet taste the whole experience had left behind still churning in her stomach, Benne found it extremely hard to believe that someday Batha was going to return for her.

“Thank you for everything. I promise I will return when the time comes. I hope you will have learned something by then, so we can truly perform together, side by side. Don’t make that face, a promise is a promise. I keep my word, believe it or not. You do not trust me? Then, we shall let time tell if I lie or speak the truth. Farewell, sweet Benne. See you soon.”

Her crimson skirt puffed like a rice-paper parasol, the black lace hem drawing circles behind her. She gathered her pack, her snake pouch, her green velvet bag full of wonders, buttoned her colorful vest and gazed one last time at Benne with those brilliant emerald eyes. She placed a gentle kiss on her dry cheek, leaving a wet mark on the perpetually dust covered skin, tell-tale of a commoner girl from Myath. She ruffled her short dirty-blonde hair, a smile gracing her beautiful face, and sand drifted down to Benne’s shoulders, creating a faint halo around her head and revealing her light brown, tawny locks, as messy as could be expected of a girl her age. She wanted to try, but ultimately couldn’t stay mad at Batha for the rest of her life, not after having been given two weeks of wonder and bliss with her, so she decided to let the anger go. Resentment was still in her heart, if anything, because she had been shown something incredible only to have it taken away, but a small part of her, the child still inside her heart, wanted to cling to hope, believe Batha’s promise and wait. Not knowing how long, or if the magician would’ve ever really kept her word, it would’ve been hard to stay hopeful, but it was worth a try.

Benne returned the kiss, and hugged her new friend for the last time. A good head shorter, Benne reached just to her chest, and with the embrace came the woman’s scent. It was the perfume of faraway lands and their soil, of foreign and rich spices, and of flowers that could only grow in the sea-salted pools to the West.

A last promise, before Benne looked forlornly as she disappeared in the distance along the trade road that bisected the town, and past the hills outside of Myath, and into the withered husks of the Dreadwood.


	2. Ten Years' Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years have passed since then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested in reading this, I apologize for taking so long to continue the story. I've been busy with actually playing D&D for the first time(s) and, you know, life in general. If you like the story or have questions, don't forget to comment and tell me what you think! I'd love to hear your opinions!

The stars twinkled over-head, a beautiful black glimmering blanket covered them from one end of the horizon to the other. Around them were stray twigs and the dry brush of the low steppes that circled the slopes of the Ageless Spine, which stood, ever-imposing and massive at their backs, eastward. Batha’s spell had granted them shelter from the night’s frigid temperatures and the dangerous critters that scoured the ground for prey, and they could comfortably afford to rest lying on a beautiful crocheted blanket, made of hundreds of colorful squares, assembled over the years by Batha herself. Nearby was an abandoned bottle of liquor, barely stoppered, and the women were embracing one another sweetly, caressing the other’s hair in turn and talking in whispers between kisses.

“I wonder how things are at home. I try to write to father, but he can hardly reply. His letters are probably lost across all the inns we’ve stayed in from here to Sirahil. It’s been a while since we’ve gone back…” Benne sighed, remembering dourly of the last time the travelling duo had stopped by Myath to visit old friends. Surprisingly, the Parched Pilgrim had been in better shape than expected. With Shalizah’s passing, her grandson had managed to turn the dingy tavern into a booming business. The surplus of gemstone deposits discovered in the mines had undoubtedly fueled the locals’ spending – and gambling – habits. The town even had a small den dedicated to games of luck, a recent trend that seemed to have gained traction in multiple cities of the Reign, with casinos and gambling halls sprouting here and there out of thin air. During that time, Benne’s father had gotten visibly older and it was clear he had not much interest for commerce left in him, his merchant days growing further and further away. Before leaving the town again, Benne had made sure to cook up a reasonable excuse for leaving him with plenty of gold to last well through retirement. She had travelled to the Capital, to serve a high official to the Queen’s court with her arcane abilities, and he had paid handsomely for her services – or so he believed. She only hoped destiny would’ve been in her favor, to bring her back to her hometown in the coming years in time to stand near her father in his last days. He was still strong and energetic for his age, his new companion a wonderful woman who took great care of him and had stood by him ever since Benne’s mother had left their home, but time goes by for all and there is no saying when his time would’ve come, or when she could’ve been back to see him across. Being so far from him hurt more than leaving Myath itself had. She did not care for the town, but for the affections she had left there. A shooting star crossed the sky while Batha swiped gently across her forehead, straightening the wild locks that kept falling into Benne’s eyes.

“We have to cut these, or you will be blinded. You need to be able to see, tomorrow.” “I know. I guess they’ll grow back with time.” “Yes, they will. Do not worry for hair. It is just hair.”

A long pause soured the air between them. Between Batha’s attempt to lighten the mood and Benne’s careless answer, she couldn’t say what had been worse. They were going into the den of the devil in the morning, and they weren’t quite sure if they would’ve had time, afterwards, to let hair grow or to go back home. Or to make a home.

“We can do this Benne. Have faith.” “Faith? That’s new.” “In us. Not in Gods. You know what I mean.  I love you, my heart.”

Benne raised her head, leaned on her elbows and looked intently into her lover’s emerald eyes. For a few, long moments, every second they had spent together and apart since their first meeting flashed before her. The Pilgrim, the interminable wait – three years of hearing and knowing nothing of Batha’s whereabouts, spent keenly studying anything arcane or magic that came across Benne’s hands or among her father’s wares – and then her return. Batha finally had crossed the threshold of the Pilgrim again one day, looking worse for wear and with a new bright blue skirt and golden hoops in her earlobes and at her wrists. Letting loose a sigh of relief she didn’t know she’d been holding, Benne had thrown her arms around the woman, and nestled her head in the curve where Batha’s neck met her shoulder, where the hair was softest. Now they were roughly the same height, the young girl all grown up from the scrawny street-rat she’d been, and more than ready to fly out of the nest in search of fame and fortune. In a matter of days, goodbyes were had and Benne was given a precious gift, as a reward for staying patient, and for having believed in Batha’s return. A wand that, while not particularly powerful, was capable of commandeering the elements enough to perform nifty tricks.

Travelling together, they discovered that where Batha’s skill laid in carefully learning and crafting spells she meticulously recorded and studied day after day, Benne’s abilities behaved more loosely. With her wit and inclination to sweet-talk her way through anything and anybody, she had managed to single-handedly bend magic to her will. Practicing small illusions and hustling at street-corners, Benne had found that music could speed her endeavors, be it a quick reel played on a salvaged viol her father had found half-crushed among his stock one month, or a series of melodious notes played on tiny cymbals and across the rim of crystal glasses. Eventually, she found a way to speak in such a way that she hardly ever needed instruments anymore, her voice serving without fail as all the music she could need to summon magic at the tip of her fingers.

Then, fragments of tens of cities, towns, villages and settlements they’d toured and performed in flashed before her. The Capital, and the city of fire and flint she’d only heard of in tales, the molten abodes that had fallen into the Red Canyon, and the travelling clan of curiously-looking people they had encountered one day near the Ashen Cliffs. And all of it had brought them here, a handful of miles from the mysterious town of Ypha. Gods knew why they had decided to undertake this quest. It certainly wasn’t for coin nor glory. But tales of the settlement had seemed to follow them wherever they went. Perhaps it had been curiosity to push them this way, and some newfound, uncharacteristic sense of justice that had convinced them to discover the truth and help the population to be finally freed of whatever evil was holding onto them. It was folly.

“I love you too, Batha. Forever.” “And beyond.”

When sleep took their intertwined figures, safe for perhaps the last time in their lives under an arcane translucent dome in the grasslands, it was a fitful one. No nightmares came to them in their slumber, but it was only because the fear of the unknown reigned, casting their minds into utter darkness.

 

They had taken to more traditional means of survival as of late, collecting proper tips from the audience and payment from the owner of the establishment they were performing in instead of blatantly conning people out of their money. Two travelling performers seemed to arouse less suspicion, and seeing both members of their little troupe on the stage for most people meant that there weren’t pickpockets scouring through the crowd and alleviating patrons of their purses, nor there were hidden helpers that could charm and command anyone at will. They looked trustworthy and professional with their clean clothes and likeable appearances, but their pride stood exactly in their ability to do every trick in plain sight, without you taking any notice. Swift and showy hand movements, spells recited under one’s breath as the other used her lilting storytelling to weave into the words even more powerful charms, garish props to litter the stage and flamboyant costumes to hide the ingredients and components needed to perform enchantments were all it took to create the perfect illusion. People paid decent money to be entertained with trivial displays of magic, and the two women had to admit it felt good to travel and put up a show without the constant fear of getting caught swindling unassuming commoners. If one asked Batha, she’d mumble that it was all thanks to Benne, who had straightened the older woman up, correcting her ways. Benne had been an urchin, left to her own devices to scuttle through sand and dirt across the town while her father and step-mother tended to business. She had learned to read and write in-between petty thievery and scuffles with boys her age, but incredibly, it had seemed that two wrongs could make a right after all. In finding each other, Benne and Batha had found a way to be good together and to put some of that goodness back into the world, even as corruption and greed reigned unleashed wherever they went.

They had first-hand experience witnessing acts of bias, prejudice and extortion from officials, authorities and everyone who held power over others. But worst of all seemed to be whatever was happening in Ypha. They had heard many accounts of people’s relatives and friends across Emera’s taverns that had dropped everything to leave for the secluded town. The stories they were told varied, but a recurring theme seemed to be how those who had gone to Ypha went there to follow a leader of some sort. Everyone Benne and Batha had talked to recalled how their friends had claimed to be leaving willingly, only to never send word home or coming back again. From time to time – as the two shared a drink with the poor fellow who was imbibing to forget his woes and grief, and tried to convince the man that perhaps their friend, sibling, partner or parent was still alive somewhere – another regular chimed in from across the taproom, saying that they, too, had seen a good friend disappear. Not to Ypha but into the desert, never to return. “As if charmed, like a snake.” To that, the magicians’ ears had perked. They knew of charms, or how to make someone obey a command, they could possibly recognize the signs of someone being held against their will. Perhaps it was meant for them to investigate those stories further, but they weren’t directly involved enough to actively search for a lead on the whole situation. People tended to disappear from time to time, it wasn’t a matter of the utmost urgency. It would’ve been nice to find out what was happening, of course, but after all they were just a travelling pair of magicians. Street-performers. Only recently reformed swindlers. If someone needed saving, it wasn’t their place to do it.

But then they had gotten to Ad Tyrndread, and the bustling community of rust-skinned woodcutters and hunters confirmed the rumors. Many had passed through town, eyes uncaring and glazed over, bone-thin and dehydrated, marching North. They called it the Rapture. No one stopped, not even to ogle at the horned devils like so many travellers liked to do. These ones just passed through, with purpose, without speaking a word.

Bolstered by the confirmation, the two had moved forward on their journey, not aware yet of the danger hidden under the events that were unfolding. Perhaps because of pride, or over-confidence, they hadn’t stopped to consider what would’ve happened once they’d reached Ypha, what was the reason that had pushed all of these people into taking off and disappear in the remote, forgotten mining town.

Yesterday, they had scouted ahead, not really sure of the sight before their eyes. Porous, twisted spires of black volcanic stone jutted from the ashen soil up toward the sky, the Ageless Spine beyond casting shadows over all of Ypha. Jagged rocks and iron spikes marked the border of town. Some stone buildings sprouted here and there, the masonry still fresh and raw, as if erected on the spot by someone who wasn’t a mason by trade. Broken pickaxes and hammers lying on the ground, littering every corner, were the only sign of life. There wasn’t a single human in sight. It had made their reconnaissance mission much easier, but it certainly hadn’t allowed for any new clues or leads into what had happened to the folk who had disappeared into the town. Ypha seemed to be, for all intents and purposes, the same ghost village everyone painted it to be.

Until a deep, rumbling bell echoed through the town, shaking the very earth under their feet. As they ran to take cover and rest before they decided to enter the town, the only thing visible in the monochrome landscape were grey figures slowly exiting homes, hovels and tunnels that bore into the porphyry spires, with ashen skin and hair, marching deeper towards the center of Ypha.

 

When the spell faded, Batha came to in time to watch a pale sun crest the peaks of the Spine. Sickly and timid, it still shone over the grasslands, dewy and shimmering. Swollen clouds appeared from behind the mountain range, to cast dark shadows under their steps as they gathered their supplies and moved towards town.

A thin mist started falling from above, and soon after wind unlike any other picked up speed. The rain pelted their faces, but they kept walking stealthily and steeled despite the odds being ever against them.


End file.
